The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (12 page)

“
B
arbara, you know my daughter, Krista,” Lydia said to the dressmaker on Tuesday afternoon.

Krista smiled delightfully.

Lydia gestured toward Carmen. “And this is my . . .” She paused. Carmen knew Lydia was working herself up to say stepdaughter, like Al called Krista, but she backed down. “This is Carmen.”

“Lydia's my stepmother,” Carmen clarified, just to be obnoxious.

Barbara wore her blond hair in a perfect bell-shaped bob. Her teeth, when she smiled, were a wall of white. Big and fake, Carmen concluded.

Barbara stared at Carmen. Carmen's hair was in a messy wad at the back. Her red tank top was soaked with sweat. “This is Albert's daughter?” she asked with obvious surprise, looking to Lydia instead of Carmen for verification.

“This is Albert's daughter,” Carmen answered for herself.

Barbara wanted to backtrack. After all, Albert was paying the bills. “It's just that you . . . you must take after your mother,” she said, as though that were diplomatic.

“I do,” Carmen confirmed. “My mother is Puerto Rican. She speaks with an accent. She says a rosary.”

Nobody seemed to pick up on her sauciness. The invisible girl.

“She has her father's aptitude for math,” Lydia argued faintly, as though in her heart she didn't believe Carmen was related to Albert at all.

Carmen felt like smacking her.

“Well, let's get on with the fitting,” Barbara suggested, setting an armful of plastic garment bags down on Lydia's bed. Lydia and Albert's bed. “Krista, let's try yours first.”

“Oh, oh, can we look at Mama's first?” Krista begged. She literally pressed her hands together wistfully.

Carmen disappeared into an upholstered chair by the wall as Lydia proudly donned what looked to be at least seventy yards of shiny white fabric. Carmen thought it was frankly embarrassing for a woman over forty with two teenage children to wear a big puffy white thing at her wedding. The bodice was fitted, and the cap sleeves showed a whole lot of over-forty arm.

“Mama, you are gorgeous. You are a vision. I'm going to cry,” Krista gushed without actually crying.

Carmen realized she was tapping her foot against the glassy wood floor, and she made herself stop.

Next, sweet, miniature, pale Krista tried on a pink-purple taffeta gown. Carmen could only pray her dress would not be identical to this one.

Krista's had to be taken in a little at the waist. “Oooh,” said Krista, laughing, as Barbara cinched and pinned. The dress was heinous, but on colorless, curveless Krista it worked as well as it could.

Now it was Carmen's turn. Even though she was invisible, pulling the identical, stiff, shiny, too-small dress over her damp skin was miserable and humiliating. She couldn't look at anyone. She couldn't look at herself in the mirror. She didn't want the picture living in her memory for the rest of her life.

Barbara appraised her with critical eyes. “Oh my. Well, this is going to need some work.” She went right to Carmen's hips and pulled the unfinished seams open. “Yes, we'll have to take this way out. I'm not sure I have enough fabric. I'll check when I get back to my office.”

You are a horrible witch,
Carmen thought.

She knew she looked absolutely awful in the dress. She was part Bourbon Street whore and part Latina first-communion spectacle.

Barbara examined the way the fabric stretched gracelessly across Carmen's chest. “We'll need to let that out too,” she said, coming in close.

Carmen immediately crossed her arms.
Do not come near my breasts,
she ordered silently.

Barbara turned to Lydia in consternation, as though it were Carmen's fault that the stupid dress didn't fit. “I'm afraid I may have to start from scratch on this one.”

“We should have given you Carmen's measurements ahead of time,” Lydia confessed with some mortification. “But Albert wanted to wait until she got here to tell her about . . .” She trailed off, realizing she was heading into the land of tension.

“Usually a roughly constructed prototype works as a starting point,” Barbara said, casting the blame back at Carmen and her butt.

“Carmen has to leave now,” Carmen said to Barbara. Anger was swelling in her chest, squishing her heart, moving up into her throat. Her temper would not suffer one more second of Barbara.

“I hate this place,” were Carmen's parting words to a confused Lydia. “And you should wear long sleeves.” She stormed out of the room.

Paul surprised her by being in the hallway. “You antagonize people,” he murmured to the fast-moving Carmen. She was as much astonished by the four syllables in
antagonize
as by the meaning of his words.

You imagined that,
she told herself, picking up her pace.

“Awesome pants,” Bailey said, arriving at Wallman's at her regular time. Tibby had come to expect it. She didn't bother to complain anymore.

Tibby stood up from the low shelf where she'd been jabbing price stickers onto boxes of crayons. She looked down with open pride at the pants. “They are
the
Pants,” Tibby explained. “They came yesterday.” She had ripped open the package, covered with colorful, fake-looking stamps. She had held the Pants tightly, feeling like she was holding a part of Lena, and breathed in the smell of Greece that, she imagined, had seeped into the fabric. The Pants did smell faintly of olive oil—she wasn't imagining it. And there was a brownish spot on the front of the right leg, toward the upper thigh, that she figured must be Lena's grandfather's blood.

Bailey's eyes opened big, her face full of reverence. “They look fantastic on you,” she said breathlessly.

“You should see them on my friends,” Tibby said. More and more often, Bailey wanted to hear stories about Tibby's friends and updates from their letters. More and more Tibby felt like she was inventing an outside world for her and Bailey.

“Has anything happened
in
them yet?” Bailey asked, fully willing to believe in the magic of the Pants.

“Well, half in them, half out of them. A boy saw Lena naked, and her grandfather tried to punch him.” Tibby couldn't help smiling at the thought. “If you knew Lena, you'd know this was a big problem.”

“Lena's the one in Greece,” Bailey said.

“Right.”

“Has Bridget had the Pants yet?” Bailey asked. For some reason, Bailey was fascinated by Bridget.

“No, Carmen's next. Then Bridget.”

“I wonder what Bridget will do in them,” Bailey mused.

“Something insane,” Tibby said lightly, but then she was quiet, regretting her choice of words.

Bailey studied her for a minute. “You worry about Bridget, I think.”

Tibby was thoughtful. “Maybe I do,” she considered slowly. “Maybe we all do a little.”

“Because of her mom?”

“Yeah. A lot because of that.”

“Was her mom sick?” Bailey pressed.

“Not sick . . . physically, exactly,” Tibby said carefully. “She had . . . bad depression.”

“Oh,” Bailey said. She was willing to let the subject end there. She seemed to guess the rest.

“So . . . anything happen to you yet in the Pants?” Bailey asked.

“I spilled a Sprite, and Duncan accused me of receipt withholding.”

Bailey smiled. “What's that?”

“I forgot to give a customer her receipt.”

“Oh,” Bailey said. “Bad.”

“Hey, are you ready to head over to the Pavillion?” Tibby asked.

“Yeah. I brought the stuff. I charged all the batteries.”

Bailey had started hanging out in Tibby's room, working on the movie while Tibby was at work. Tibby had taught Bailey the basics of editing and laying in the sound track on her iMac. Loretta always let Bailey in. It was kind of weird, but Tibby didn't mind anymore.

At the Pavillion, Margaret was still working the box office, so they had to wait. As soon as they walked into the lobby of the theater, Tibby spotted Tucker. She sucked in her breath. After the stories she'd heard about the places he went and the people he hung out with, she didn't expect to see him at the movie theater.

He was standing with two of his friends in the popcorn line. His arms were crossed, and he looked impatient.

“What do you see in that guy?” Bailey wondered aloud.

“Only that he's one of the best-looking guys I've ever seen in person,” Tibby said. When he looked over and caught her eye, Tibby felt a surge of confidence when she remembered she was wearing the Pants. Then she felt a plunge in confidence when she realized she was still wearing the smock.

Would it be too obvious if she took this moment to wriggle out of her smock? Tucker finished buying his popcorn and a soda the size of a car battery and walked right up to her.

“Yo, Tibby. How's it goin'?” He was staring directly at her “Hi, I'm Tibby!” pin. He knew her name without the pin, but only because of her association with her hottie friends.

“Fine,” Tibby said stiffly. She could never talk when she was around him.

She heard Bailey sniff derisively.

“You working at Wallman's?” Tucker asked. One of his friends smirked.

“No, she just wears the smock ‘cause it's cool,” Bailey snapped.

“See you,” Tibby mumbled over her shoulder at Tucker. She dragged Bailey back out the door onto the heat of the sidewalk. “Bailey, keep your mouth shut, would you?”

Bailey had her feisty look. “Why should I?”

Margaret appeared from the box office. “Y'all ready?” she asked.

Tibby and Bailey glared at each other. “Yes, we're ready,” Tibby said through tight jaws, feeling big.

“Margaret, how long have you worked here?” Tibby asked once they were set up in a quiet part of the lobby in front of a poster from
Clueless
—Margaret's choice.

“Lit's jist see.” Margaret looked to the ceiling. “I giss it was . . . 1971.”

Tibby swallowed hard. That was, like, thirty years ago. She looked closer at Margaret. She wore her blond hair in a high ponytail and wore a lot of eye shadow. She was obviously older than she looked, but Tibby had never dreamed she was
that
old.

“How many movies do you think you've seen?” Tibby asked.

“Over tin thousand, I would have to giss,” Margaret said.

“And do you have one favorite?”

“I can't say, honestly,” Margaret replied. “I have so minny. I luuuuved this one.” She hooked her thumb at the movie poster behind her. She thought some more. “
Steel Magnolias
is one of my all-time best.”

“Is it true you can recite whole scenes from movies?” Tibby asked.

Margaret blushed. “Sure. Well, I don't mean to brag or anything. I can only remember some parts. Right now there's this rill cute one with Sandra Bullock. You want to hear it?”

Margaret took off her pink cardigan, and Tibby noticed how small she was. She didn't look like she'd hit puberty, let alone crossed her fortieth birthday years ago.

What happened to you?
Tibby wondered. She looked at Bailey. Bailey's mouth was very small in her face.

“Could we watch a movie with you?” Bailey asked.

Margaret's eyes were puzzled. “You mean jis go in and watch one now? All of us three together?”

“Yeah,” Bailey said.

“Uh, I guess we could do that.” Margaret's expression made a slow shift from doubt to interest. “There's that rill cute one jis startin' up in theater four.”

Margaret followed Bailey and Tibby uncertainly down the dark aisle and into a middle row of seats. “I usually jis stand in the back,” she explained in a whisper. “But these seats are rill nice, aren't they?”

As the fluffy plot progressed, Margaret looked over at them so many times, checking excitedly for their reactions, that Tibby wondered, with a swelling sadness in her throat, how many of the ten thousand movies Margaret had watched with another person.

Bridget couldn't fall asleep. Even her spot at the edge of the beach under the stars felt stuffy and confining to her tonight. She felt a dangerous restlessness building up in her joints and muscles.

She got out of her sleeping bag and walked down to the water. It was gentle as ever. She wanted Eric to come to her. She wanted to be near him so badly.

She had an idea. She knew immediately it was a bad idea, but once it was there it was like a challenge. She couldn't not do it.

She walked quietly along the beach, hearing the hiss of sand between her feet. The far northern end of their little cove was even more desolate, and it was the place, she knew, where Eric shared a cabin with other coaches.

A memory popped into her head. It was something a psychiatrist had written about her in the months after her mother died. It was supposed to be confidential, but she found the report in her dad's desk drawer. “Bridget is single-minded in achieving her goals,” Dr. Lambert had written. “Single-minded to the point of recklessness.”